


For Keeps

by introductory



Series: For Keeps [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Author's Favorite, Gen, Greyromantic Character(s), Neurodivergent Character(s), POV First Person, Post-Call of the Wild, Queerplatonic Relationships, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 16:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18196655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/introductory/pseuds/introductory
Summary: It was two afternoons ago that we arrived in Fort McPherson, worn nearly to the bone, and checked into the town's singular inn; the room had come with two beds but Ray and I, by unspoken agreement, took one and ceded the other to Diefenbaker. We'd slept during the quest pressed shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, inside a single bag and re-entering civilization had not broken us of the habit -- nor, do I suspect, would it have, had I not said what I did that first night.





	For Keeps

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written summer 2016. Sixth _Due South_ fic started, first one completed; I'd initially envisioned this as a very short fic of maybe a few hundred words, but ~~eight months and four-thousand words~~ almost three years and eight-thousand words later that very obviously didn't go according to plan. 
> 
> Timeline-wise, this fic takes place in mid-to-late May 1999, about seven or eight weeks after the series finale (the events of which transpired largely on March 11), with the quest beginning in early April. Although I do ship F/K romantically, my personal interpretation of canon Fraser is strongly greyromantic; as such, this particular fic is intended to be read as q-platonic (though of course I can't stop anyone from reading it as pre-slash).
> 
> [Writing soundtrack: [The Album Leaf - Always For You](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=1jYr2fDgn64) & [Gaslight Anthem - Break Your Heart](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=WszGQrPMnd0).]

"Three years, Fraser. Three years."

Ray isn't looking at me. He's staring straight ahead at the hangar where a shoal of turboprops idles in the darkness; he might be talking to himself but for the lightning-quick dart of his gaze in my direction. Perhaps he is thinking about learning to aviate, in which case I should inform him that obtaining a pilot's license comes at the expense of up to seventy hours of flight time, as well as a series of written exams, and given the demands of his profession it would likely take that much time to simply become fully certified, plus any additional time should he aspire beyond a private license. But conversation between myself and Ray has been awkward these final days, the handful of sentences we've exchanged limited to courtesies and logistics: who would take the first shower, whose turn it was to accompany Diefen­baker on a walk, what time we'd need to leave for his 6:40 flight to Inuvik. Ray dozed in the passenger seat for the length of the morning's drive, his ritual coffee gone untouched in the cupholder; he insisted we arrive an hour and a half in advance, citing his experiences at O'Hare, but this town's airport turned out to be little more than a kiosk and I elected to allow him these few minutes of rest -- even if it proceeds entirely seamlessly, the route he's travelling today will no doubt be an ordeal, and especially so for someone of Ray's restless constitution.

(A part of me recognizes the decision for the avoidance tactic it is; should I not be treasuring these final hours with my friend, partaking in shared nostalgia, making gestures of farewell? But Diefenbaker chose to remain at the guesthouse and, bereft of his persuasive criticism, I can hardly be faulted for waking Ray only now, thirty minutes prior to boarding: better caution than recklessness, better things left unsaid than regretted.)

Ray does not repeat himself, and after waiting enough time to allow him to elaborate, I clear my throat and prompt, "Ray?"

He leans forward, then, entire posture changing: defiant, defensive, as if I've dealt him a blow simply by uttering his name. I watch his tells unfold in quick succession; he rubs his thumb across his narrow chin, touches the hair above his ear, scratches the underside of his jaw where his pale stubble has begun to show, and finally settles straight-backed against the seat, preter­naturally still. A reserve of potential energy, a gun locked and loaded, and ready to fire.

"My whole life is in Chicago," he says, finally. His jaw is set, his chin tilted up: a challenge directed through the windshield but meant, I know, for me. "My whole life, Fraser. I can't stay here 'n not go back. I know that, you know that -- arguing about it ain't gonna make a difference."

"Of course, Ray." Although I've not instigated any such argument, I swallow the contrarian words on my tongue. Ray's correct, as he tends to be where matters of the heart are concerned; there's no use attempting to sway him, and besides it would only sour these last few minutes before we part for good. As unhappy I am about his chosen course of action, as detrimental as our separation will be to my emotional well-being, I cannot in good conscience deny Ray his agency nor disrespect his autonomy.

(Not to mention that any efforts to do so would certainly be in vain. Of all the qualities I admire and will miss about Ray, his stubborn intractability, despite the heartache it has caused me over the years, may well be at the top of the list.)

He turns to look at me, then, and his shoulders slump forward; he looks unusually small, resigned, almost diminished. Another glance in my direction reveals eyes hooded with what appears to be regret, or perhaps that's just my wishful thinking.

"I got my parents," he continues, voice subdued. "I got Stella, I got Welsh -- God help me, I got Frannie -- I can't just take off on 'em all of a sudden and not come back. It ain't fair to them, Fraser."

"Understood."

"I can't just call up my folks and say, 'Hey, hope everything's going okay and Dad's back isn't givin' him too much trouble, sorry I didn't make it down for seder but me 'n Fraser are doing pretty great up here, thanks for asking, and oh, by the way, I'm actually gonna be staying here so d'ya mind packing all of my stuff and shipping it up this-a-way'?" I nod even as my gaze flicks away involuntarily and alights on the dashboard clock, which now reads 6:04; precious minutes we've lost to this conversation, and all of it tired, worn, painfully familiar. "That what I'm supposed to say, Fraser? 'Hey, Stel, sorry I took off for the Northern Territories without sayin' goodbye, but I'll mail you a postcard when the Caribou Express comes back through town'?"

"Ray, there's no need to belabor the point," I say, suppressing with some effort the urge to correct his geography. "You made your reasoning quite clear the other night and, as I stated then, I've no desire to keep you here against your will.

Experiences tied to emotion are, neurologically speaking, the ones we tend to best remember -- an adaptation of tantamount importance to our evolutionary ancestors, no doubt, but one seemingly maladaptive to modern _H. sapiens_ with its petty conflicts and tragic romances, its fraught interpersonal dealings with little bearing on physical survival. Charged as the exchange in question had been, Ray's unlikely to have forgotten it; after a moment he nods, confirmation enough.

"Yeah, Fraser," he says. "I remember."

It was two afternoons ago that we arrived in Fort McPherson, worn nearly to the bone, and checked into the town's singular inn; the room had come with two beds but Ray and I, by unspoken agreement, took one and ceded the other to Diefenbaker. We'd slept during the quest pressed shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, inside a single bag and re-entering civilization had not broken us of the habit -- nor, do I suspect, would it have, had I not said what I did that first night.

But our short time in this town does not bear thinking of now, not when Ray is minutes away from leaving the country, leaving our partnership, and me with no company other than Diefenbaker and my own foolish hubris at having believed -- having assumed -- that simply because Ray's need outweighed mine he would willingly abandon his _wants_ in order to preserve our partnership. I had counted on his weakness, dismissed his strength and conviction; worse, I had even, throughout our time in Chicago, found a shameful pride in being needed, especially so very transparently -- in having a measure of dominance over Ray, whose unpredictable actions so frequently left me at a loss, and despite professing to see him as an equal, despite our years of synergy and mutual trust, still clearly thrived on this inequality.

It may even, at this juncture, be for the best he leaves: clearly I've ceased thinking of this as a partnership of equals. Any longer and it may even cease to be a friendship altogether.

"Ray," I begin, but he shakes his head, mouth pressing into a thin line, and obediently I subside.

"The lieu's counting on me," he says, somber. "Jack Huey's the only other decent cop he's got, and did you hear his knucklehead partner's tryin' to get him to quit? Elaine's working Narcotics over at the 1-6 now, so she's no help, and Frannie -- " He shakes his head, barks out a laugh. "You're not gonna believe this -- Frannie's gonna be a mom."

The announcement brings my various thought processes to an abrupt halt. "Francesca's pregnant?" I say, certain that Ray isn't lying but unable to quite believe the truth.

"Yeah. Six weeks along," he says. "I called her last night while you were in the shower and she fessed up right outta the blue -- not even her folks know yet, and boy are they gonna give her hell when they find out. I probably shouldn't'a told you, so don't go making things worse by sending her a crib made out of moose antlers or something."

"The, ah -- " I clear my throat, still nonplussed. "The father?"

This time Ray's head-shake is accompanied by a languid shrug. "No clue. All I know is he's the kind of guy who'd wanna do the right thing and marry her, but that's exactly why she don't want him to know. Some folks, one marriage goes down the shitter, that's enough for them." he says; I wonder if he's making a comment on his own marriage to Stella, but I push that thought away. "It's none of anyone's business who the dad is, I guess, but this is _Francesca_ we're talkin' about here. She couldn't raise a kid alone if she was standing in an elevator goin' up."

My own misgivings regarding Francesca's capability as a parent notwith­standing, I find Ray's immediate dismissal of her to be rather uncharitable. It's true this development is unexpected, but regardless of her discomfiting fixation I've always found Francesca to be spirited, resourceful, and rather tenacious indeed, and I convey to Ray as much. "I think you'll find that many people are more than capable of effecting significant positive change when presented with the proper catalyst," I say. "The prospect of becoming a parent may in fact serve to impel Francesca towards a greater conscien­tiousness and emotional maturity. Besides, should she encounter any difficulty, she'll be able to avail of her mother's and sister's wealth of child-rearing experience. Perhaps even your mother -- "

"Okay, okay, maybe," Ray says, although he still looks skeptical. "Maybe Frannie pulls this off -- so what? I still can't leave her. I'm her brother."

He doesn't need me to remind him of the fiction -- he is once again Ray Kowalski in name, a fact about which he's shown far less enthusiasm than I had expected. "One cannot abandon family, of course," I say, the irony thick on my tongue, only for it to be subsumed by a peculiar grief. Nearly two months have passed since I lost my parents for the second time, and though I've finally grown accustomed to the absence of my father's ghost I must admit I find myself missing his well-meaning yet patently ridiculous advice, turning my head with a response to a voice heard only within my mind. No doubt he would have his colorful opinions on my present situation, but the air remains stubbornly silent, and any further words must be my own.

"You're a good man, Ray," I finish, immediately embarrassed by my somewhat feeble response, but Ray simply ducks his head in a nod.

"Yeah," he says. "And you got _your_ sister, too -- can't leave her all alone up here, either."

"Technically, Maggie's posting is located eleven-hundred kilometres to the southeast, but in essence you're correct, Ray -- I gave her my word I would make myself available to her, and I fully intend to keep that promise."

"Good," says Ray, nodding again. "That's real good of you, Fraser."

Following my sister's return to Canada, I'd called Buck Frobisher and convinced him to advocate on my sister's behalf (though I was loath to divulge the truth of her heritage without permission, Frobisher surmised it easily and needed little further convincing). The disciplinary process was expeditious, as Maggie denied none of the charges levied against her by the RCMP, and in the end she was demoted to Level 3 Constable but allowed to remain on the force on probationary status -- a successful effort, or so I'd believed.

Upon the brief sojourn I took to Yellowknife directly preceding the quest, I learned Maggie had been assigned to a desk, her duties comprising little more than the processing of requisition forms, possibly the most menial conceivable duty that fell under the purview of an RCMP officer: it was at once a waste of her considerable talent and expertise and a patently obvious punishment for her extralegal activities several months prior. Maggie had given the outward impression of having accepted this exile in stride, even seeming proud when her sergeant noted to me her efficiency with paperwork, but what genuinely surprised me was that she uttered not a word of complaint once we were in private as I'd expected of her. As we'd driven to her apartment she spoke only of her adjustment to the city's bustle until, simmering with frustration, I could contain myself no longer and blurted, quite savagely, _If this is all they judge you fit for, what reason could you possibly have to stay?_

She'd paused, both hands on the steering wheel. Then she'd turned to me, the look in her eyes harder than flint, and said, _You're not a quitter,_ _Ben_ \-- _well, neither am I._

And she was, of course, correct. How many days had I spent broiling under the midday Chicago sun, condemned to an eternity of sentry duty for daring to do the right thing, and not once considered resignation? Maggie is my sister, after all, sired by the same nigh-mythical father, and surrender is not in our blood. She had pursued the truth at great personal cost, consequences be damned -- with any justice, I hoped, her sacrifice would one day be acknowledged and her integrity rewarded, but until then she'd have no choice but to weather the current circumstances.

The point of this digression being: I can no sooner abandon Maggie the way I'd asked Ray to abandon Francesca, no sooner turn my back on Frobisher than Ray could Welsh. Even Inspector Thatcher still commands a fair amount of my devotion, and if she requested my presence in Toronto -- in a professional capacity, of course -- I would give the matter the due consider­ation it deserves. Ray and Stella have recently become, if not close, at least friends, and his devotion to her runs deeper than the Mackenzie River in full flood.

A line of poetry springs to mind, unbidden: _no more by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever_. A gross misappropriation of the words, perhaps, and laughably melodramatic besides, but are these moments not the death throes of our partnership, the final measures of our complicated duet? The odd postcard, the occasional phone call: how can they possibly substitute for the quicksilver flash of Ray's grin, for his hands in their entropic restlessness, for the unique combination of scents -- black coffee, hair product, holster leather and synthetic gun oil, the day's honest sweat and Ray's own earthy, masculine smell -- that would linger upon my skin after his overly enthusiastic embraces? For the way we worked and fit together in mind, body, and soul, creating something greater than the sum total of our two selves?

I'd loved Ray Vecchio, of course, without question or compunction, but he had had a life of his own outside of our partnership: he dated quite extensively, ran in certain social circles, and served as the patriarch of his sizeable family, and so I took great care to allow him that time and space. It wouldn't do to come off as needy, or to overstep the bounds of our friendship, simply because I had no one else. At least this is what I'd told myself at the time -- in truth I had never before had a partner, and regardless of how close he and I grew, I was never quite brave enough to lower my defenses entirely and allow him to truly _know_ me. He had seen me at my worst, at my lowest, and still I strove to hide every ounce of weakness; I was afraid to show that I needed him, and that I craved his acceptance and validation, even at the absolute nadir of my life. How often I wished myself capable of it, but Ray seemed to appreciate my concerted efforts at honesty and for that I loved him all the more, even if I often failed to properly convey it.

Ray Kowalski, on the other hand, seemed not only willing but eager to fill up the multiple absences in his life with my company, taking me out to his favorite billiard bars, restaurants he'd been to with Stella for one anniversary or another, multiple hole-in-the-wall diners he claimed, improbably, all served the best waffles in Chicago. At first I'd imagined I was humoring him, assisting my friend how I could in his efforts to get over his ex-wife, but it quickly became apparent that I was seeking out his company just as eagerly; boundaries were demonstrably not Ray's strong suit and, as if through infection, or simply due to emotional fatigue, I allowed my own defenses to falter -- a seemingly-fatal misstep from which I would never recover. It was, after all, meant to be a temporary arrangement: Ray Vecchio could return from Las Vegas at any time, and it would be unwise to grow emotionally attached to his replacement.

But months passed, then a year, and it was still Stanley Ray Kowalski who picked me up from the consulate every morning, who endured stakeouts and chased down criminals alongside me, who accepted my various idiosyncrasies as if they were mere quirks. One could retrace a thousand decisions and never truly identify the point of no return; Ray endeared himself to me over countless moments such that it would be impossible to pinpoint the hour in which he became to me more than friend, more than family. Though I paid little mind to the teasing whispers that abounded in the 27th precinct -- Ray himself laughed them off as largely good-natured ribbing -- they were fundamentally accurate: Ray Kowalski _was_ my significant other, and I, by virtue of Ray having no others of significance besides Stella and his parents, was his.

(Diefenbaker does not count: he is my wolf, but I am no more his master than he is mine. That he has remained by my side for so long when he could be running free across the tundra or cosseted by an indulgent owner is a mystery to me, but one I am grateful for nonetheless.)

And, much like the numerous couples whose spats we were called upon to de-escalate, Ray and I had our own fair share of arguments. Nothing like the petty disagreements I'd have with my father, nor Ray Vecchio's frequent outbursts, intense in volume but fueled more by frustration than genuine anger: when Ray Kowalski was hurt he lashed out, struck back with the thoughtless cruelty of a child, and his words were often more painful than any amount of fisticuffs. Despite his physical myopia Ray had an unerring precision when it came to casting the exact aspersions that would leave me shaken to the core, wishing I could turn my back on Chicago and everything the city had forced upon me; other times they rendered me furious enough to loose my own tongue and unleash the mean, cutting truths I'd been scrupulous to never voice aloud -- god knows I can be vicious when provoked, and too proud to back down no matter how deeply I knew I'd regret it when I came to my senses. And regret it I did, each and every time: I would ready myself to seek him out, my pride a bitter thing in the back of my throat, only to find him already at my side, apologizing in deed if not word.

If only I could swallow that pride once more; if only I could bring myself to leave this place and follow Ray back to Chicago, to let my uniform and manners mark me an outsider in that urban wilderness -- but the North has sunk tooth and claw in me and I will not abandon my home again, not even for Ray. Perhaps if I'd never allowed myself to have both, even however briefly; if I'd been wise enough to send him back to Chicago after Muldoon rather than entertaining his yearning for adventure, and never known the sacred intimacy that could be granted only in the face of sheer survival --

"There's another thing I didn't tell you," says Ray, his voice cutting through the dark fog of my thoughts, and I blink, startled, before inwardly cursing myself for having lost track of the time; these may well be the last minutes I'll ever spend with Ray, and I've been fool enough to waste four of them on self-indulgent reverie. I'll have nothing _but_ time once my friend departs, and I of all people should know that idle daydreaming does nothing to change one's present circumstances.

"Yes, Ray?"

"They picked me out a partner for when I get back," Ray says, and I have the strangest sensation, however anatomically impossible, of feeling my internal organs plummet several inches southward. "Carrie Aquino, transferred in last year from the 1-2 when she made detective -- word is she got burnt out seeing rapists walk and asked the captain for a switch." All I can do is nod, and Ray continues, "We met her at the Christmas party last time, remember? 5'1", curly hair, cute accent? I was thinkin' about maybe making a move on her, but that was before I figured out I ain't exactly her type."

"I believe I do remember her, yes," I say, recalling the petite detective at the station's most recent celebration who'd shaken our hands rather firmly, fed Diefen­baker the doughnut she was carrying, and informed us in a conspiratorial whisper that the eggnog seemed to contain far more nog than it did egg, a fact Ray had discovered for himself just moments before; I recall, too, that she'd then proceeded to flirt outrageously with A.S.A. Kowalski, who'd seemed more flattered than affronted by the attention. From that brief encounter the detective had struck me as forward but eminently likable; I've no doubt she and Ray would find each other's company pleasant -- provided, of course, they didn't find themselves vying for the attentions of the same woman. "Have you had a chance to examine her service record?"

"Clean as a whistle -- nothing hinky, not even informal. Which I guess is kind of hinky in itself, but Welsh and everybody at the S.A.'s office vouches for her, so she's gotta be as cool as an Inuit under pressure. Me, I don't think I could work Sex Crimes more than ten minutes before they took my badge for turning some scumbag into burger meat."

"Ray -- "

"But hey, that's why I don't work Sex Crimes," he says, tone flippant. His mood seems to have passed as quickly as it had descended upon him, yet he remains restless, opening the clasp of his metal wristwatch and rotating it repeatedly around his slim wrist, noticeably slimmer despite our high-energy diet on the tundra; the motion is arresting, and it takes considerable effort not to stare. "Supposed to be there's a lot I can teach her 'bout the job," Ray continues nonchalantly. "Personally I think it's just 'cause Vecchio'd rather eat shit than have to partner up together, but that's just fine by me. I mean -- no offense, Fraser, but if the lieu tried to stick me with him I'd rather go out and eat shit, too. Sorry."

"It's quite all right, Ray," I tell him, striving to keep the disappointment from my voice. It isn't, not really, but my personal feelings are of little import. Expecting the two of them to get along simply because they'd shared an identity and a partner had been a miscalculation; in fact, it was largely their common­alities that made them incompatible, pitting them against each other in a bizarre sort of rivalry. I myself have never understood the need for such meaningless posturing, the like of which is worth little in an environment where the goodwill of a stranger can mean the difference between life and death, but I know from experience it's equally as pointless to voice my opinion on the matter.

In any case, Lieutenant Welsh is a sensible man, as well as a compassionate one, and he must understand that the lengthy process of Ray Vecchio's readjustment -- of not only unlearning how to be Armando Languistini but relearning how to be himself -- requires a deft touch, and that pairing up both Rays would be inviting catastrophe for all parties involved. I also know it's far safer for Ray not to work alone, physically and emotionally both; I suppose this makes me a hypocrite, but I can't bear the thought of Ray feeling any more alone than he already does.

The soundness of these conclusions bolsters me somewhat, and I'm once again able to speak confidently. "It seems the lieutenant has made a prudent decision," I say, with a not-insignificant satisfaction at the evenness of my voice. "I believe you'll benefit from Detective Aquino's levelheadedness and she from your ingenuity and years of experience, and above all each other's passion for justice. She could not ask for a wiser mentor, nor a finer partner and friend, than you."

Ray stills. "Thanks, Fraser," he says. "That's -- thanks."

"You're welcome, Ray. I mean every word."

"I know," he says. When he clears his throat, his voice has lost its husky quality. "Thanks."

Outside the sky has turned dove-grey, illuminating the few travellers wheeling their luggage across the asphalt: Ray's fellow flight-mates,  I assume, all with their own stories to tell. I wonder which of them will sit beside Ray for the first leg of his travels, whether they will ask what brought him to this small hamlet along the Mackenzie, whether Ray will indulge them or simply shrug off the question, lean back in his seat, and take a nap.

Even now I'm uncertain whether Ray fully grasped the enormity, the sheer magnitude of the trust he'd placed in me when he caught my arm on the steps of the federal courthouse and said, unusually hesitant, that if I'd been serious about finding the hand of Franklin, then so was he. I'd balked momen­tarily, taken off-guard; Ray had complained so vociferously during our search for Muldoon that I'd given no further thought to the matter. I had just brought my mother's killer to justice and given my father the chance to finally be at peace, and while I wouldn't say I was precisely _happy_ I did feel a sense of immense gratification, as if I'd fulfilled my life's purpose -- haring off across the tundra on a fool's errand seemed insignificant, downright silly, in comparison.

Not to mention the risk: Ray seemed quite convinced that because we'd survived our impromptu trek across the mountains a fortnight earlier, having beaten the staggering odds through sheer deter­mination, we could survive anything -- when in fact, we were lucky to have even survived at all, much less to have emerged wholly unscathed by frostbite, altitude sickness, hypothermia, or any number of potentially lethal and/or disabling conditions. The quest he was now proposing would once again place us directly at at the mercy of the elements and remove us for a period of weeks from all the comforts, luxuries, and necessities of modern civilization -- it would be, in a word, difficult, and that was _if_ things went according to plan. However well-prepared we would be this time, there still remained the very real and inescapable possibility of disaster, and with it death; for the duration of the quest, Ray would be almost entirely dependent on my expertise, and if anything befell me or the dogs, he would certainly perish come next nightfall.

 _I trust you, Fraser,_ he'd said in response to my doubts, and that had been that.

For five weeks we journeyed together, and though Ray quickly became competent at guiding the dogs and setting up camp, even trying his hand at navigation, it never once escaped my mind that I was holding Ray's very life in my hands. He trusted me, and in return I bared myself to him inside the blackness of our tent -- not in terms of nudity, though we had become unavoidably familiar with each other's bodies, seen each other in all manner of dress and undress, during the course of our partnership. No, it was in spirit that I allowed Ray to know me: a man could say anything in the dark, and on nights when the howling winds kept us from the shores of sleep I revealed to him, hesitantly and then with growing surety, my most carefully guarded truths.

At first the words served merely as a diversion, something to take Ray's mind off the storms; he was tired of Inuit stories, he said, and he had run out of stories of his own, or at least ones he was willing to share. But soon I was speaking, without pretense or parable, of my parents' absence and that particular yearning that could never quite be satisfied, the mother whose memory I held like a prized childhood totem, the father whose vacancy could never be properly filled, not by Gerard or Buck Frobisher, Eric or Quinn, and how even in death his unconditional validation had continued to elude me; of my wild youth and belligerent, alcohol-soaked young adulthood that culminated in significant property damage, the hospitali­zation of two local bullies, and four months' detention at the River Ridge Correctional Centre followed by nine months' community service; of my struggles with and ultimate loss of faith in the divine, a loss more devastating than any other in my thirty-nine years of life; and infrequently, my cheeks aflame, of more prurient matters --

( -- of losing my virginity at the age of fourteen, in the woods behind my grandparents' cabin, to my childhood friend June Aglukkaq; of the few romantic entanglements that followed Depot, as fleeting as they were rare; of my first and only sexual encounter with another man, a widowed Dené carpenter whose subsequent calls I was too cowardly to return, having found the experience far too much to my liking; and of Fortitude Pass, and _gash-gold vermillion_ , and her reaching-out hand -- )

\-- all that had made Benton Prescott Fraser who he was and would ever be, all I had been carrying alone for so long. I spoke until my throat was raw and my words ran dry, as if I were Scheherazade trading tales to stave off the dawn, and Ray responded, as I hadn't dared to expect, with mercy and compassion. The morning always came, however, and with each increasingly early sunrise I felt my hold on him slipping, our remaining time together running out from weeks to days, and even then I still couldn't bring myself to acknowledge his impending departure. Nothing was permanent, I knew, but a part of me foolishly believed that if I could just let him _see_ me -- if I could give him enough of myself -- it would be enough to make him stay.

I was wrong, so very wrong, and only one other mistake has ever cost me this dearly. I will heal from this, as I healed then and as I must now, but oh -- how it will ache in the meantime; how I will bleed.

"Fraser," Ray says, a strange urgency in his voice. "Listen up. We only got five minutes, okay?"

"I'm listening, Ray."

"Good. Okay." He drums his fingers on his leg in rapid-fire staccato and draws in a breath. "I've been with the department twelve years," he says. "I gotta finish this, Fraser. I gotta see it through. Put in my fifteen -- I've got to."

"And I understand, Ray," I say, utterly sincere. "It's your duty."

(So what if I had nearly abandoned my own duty, once, for another? Ray is a stronger man than I, a better man for all that he claims the opposite, and I am no skilled enchantress, weaving my magic on Ionian shores. What hold have I over Ray?)

He gives me an unreadable look, hand stilling momentarily on his thigh. "I'm saying I got too much shit back home I gotta take care of. Got to get my pension figured out -- Stel's always the one did all the paperwork, so I gotta ask her about that. Okay, and the union. The apartment. The Goat. The turtle. I can't just up and leave, Fraser."

"And I would never demand you do so, Ray."

The conversation has come full circle yet again, and I can only nod vaguely, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. How is it we could once speak volumes with a single glance, and yet now, at the height of our friendship, we could utter a million words and still misunderstand each other, our semantics lost: migratory songbirds with their compasses destabilized, forever wandering, unable to return home?

I watch his hands instead, but their language is lost to me, too, in this moment, despite my best efforts to memorize their dialect. How I'll miss those hands of his: their shape, their impatience, their casual, friendly touch. Those hands that have on more than one occasion yanked me bodily out of harm's way and pulled me to safety; that have decked criminals in the jaw and fed Diefenbaker all sorts of illicit treats; that have soothed grieving widows and hitched our tent in the darkening hours of twilight, sure and steady. How I long to touch him now, but so much has already been misread, and I don't think I could bear it were he to reject me again.

"Gotta get it all squared away first, you know? Pay back some old debts, settle some scores I been putting off," he says, flexing his hand into a fist, "and in the meantime I'm out on the streets puttin' the fear of God into every no-good piece'a trash out there, just like He intended."

I highly doubt that any deity, Abrahamic or otherwise, would have designed Ray for such a singularly violent purpose, but my partner is correct in one regard: that he is, first and foremost, a Chicago city cop. A dutiful and honest officer of the peace; a tireless, maddeningly brilliant detective. For me to even fantasize about keeping him here, about depriving him of his calling for my own sake, is an utterly selfish desire -- a desire that would have gone unspoken but for that first fateful afternoon.

 _You oughta get a new partner up here,_ he'd said, voice a quiet rumble in the darkness. I could feel the vibrations of his voice through the stillness of the air, as if we were trapped under a bell jar; I could smell the bergamot and mint of the inn's handmade soap, the pinpricks of blood from where Ray had cut himself shaving off five weeks' worth of beard at once in defiance of my sound advice. _Trust me, you_ need _one_ \-- _somebody who's got your back, who's gonna keep you from doing all that dumb crazy shit you always do._

I'd had my eyes closed, my mind bustling despite the exhaustion of my body. _I hardly think insults are called for, Ray, even though your concern for my_ _well-being_ is _rather touching_ , I'd said, concentrating purposefully on calming my internal chaos to such a degree that I could rest. I'd been picturing the tundra, predictably, but the pristine white landscape held no peace for me that night; still, I preferred it to whatever emotions the impending conversation with Ray would evoke.

But Ray persevered, undeterred: _'Cause I don't wanna turn on the news and they're saying, 'Mountie dies trying to fight polar bear with his bare hands,' or 'Mountie dismem­bered by trafficking ring he thought it was a bright idea to go chasing down all on his own,' or 'Mountie corpse found frozen in snow on the trail of a guy who stole a pack of Doublemint_ _gum_ ' -- 

There had been something hard in Ray's voice, an undercurrent of steel, the tone of it changing indefinably as he shifted on the mattress.

_You hear me, Fraser? You're gonna get yourself a partner and you're gonna stop risking your neck all the time for no goddamn reason, or I swear I'll come back up here and break both your legs off at the knee._

_I hardly think violent amputation is called for either_ , _Ray_ \--

But he'd rolled over onto his side, then -- as though he couldn't bear to see me, even in his periphery, and even as I lay perfectly still there was nothing I wanted more than to mimic his movement, to press myself against the curve of his back and reaffirm my presence, prove myself as solid and resilient as he needed to believe I was; but I did not move, and he did not turn back, and when he spoke again his tone was quiet and strained.

 _Because_ , he'd said, voice breaking just enough for it to be detectable, _if anything ever happened to you, and I mean_ anything -- _you might as well put me down, too, 'cause I don't think I could take it. Anything happens to you and I wasn't around to stop it, I don't think I could live with it. Game over, Fraser. Checkmate._ _K-O_. _Sayonara, amigos._

Across the room, Diefenbaker whined in his sleep, paws twitching, no doubt dreaming of his time as lead sled dog, and not for the first time I envied him his simplicity; he and the other dogs were team, and one day he might find a pack of his own, but never would he have to navigate the perilous tangle of human emotions or contend with such heartbreak as I face now, thirty hours out from that moment and no more the wiser, no more at peace.

 _I don't want another partner,_ I'd heard myself saying. _Not if it isn't you._

With the lights off and the blinds drawn it was a reasonable enough approxi­mation of the darkness inside our shared tent; I hadn't been thinking, necessarily, merely giving voice to a feeling inside of me, a germ that had sprouted and coiled its tendrils around every fiber of my being. And oh, it had been so unforgivably stupid of me, so remarkably thoughtless, but in the dark I'd turned to him, sick at heart of loving and being loved and still, despite love, being forsaken -- I'd turned to him and said, _I couldn't bear it if you left me_.

(My mother and my father, my grandparents, the various parental figures that had aimed to take their places; Victoria had fled as if I'd cast her away; Ray Vecchio took the FBI's assignment under duress but regardless of motive it produced functionally the same result. The thought of Ray Kowalski walking away from me as had the others -- I believed then, in that moment, that it would destroy me, even as I know now that it has not.

I don't need Ray, but oh, God, how I _want_ him, how I will miss and grieve him, how utterly desolate I will be without him.)

"Understood," I say, my voice barely louder than a whisper, only for Ray to say,

"No, Fraser. It's _not_ understood."

I can't help turning to look at him, heedless of what must be showing on my face; his own is pinched and stern, eyebrows drawn tightly together. His body language has become agitated, hands fluttering and head shaking, every part of him in quantifiable motion, and as I track the movements I'm reminded of that afternoon on the docks a year ago, the bright sharp shock of Ray's fist against my jaw. I'd failed to take him seriously, then, and been promptly apprised of my mistake: a faster lesson I'd never learned, not even in my wild youth.

"You playing dumb or what, Fraser? I am trying to _tell_ you something," he says, voice brooking no argument. "I'm communicating, like _partners_ , but you're over there on Pluto thinking god-knows-what while I'm over here spilling my guts out. So let me let me lay it all out for you, Fraser, for once in your life -- "

He leans across the small divider; I've seen this posture countless times before, during his interviews, and I half-expect him to jab a finger in my direction or grab me by the shirtfront like he would any obstinate suspect, shaking the truth out of me like snow from a bedroll on nights too picturesque to remain indoors.

"Here's the plan, okay? I go back to Chicago and do my thing at the 2-7, and you -- you do yours. You change your mind and you wanna come down and work with me again? That's great, that's peaches. You wanna stay here and liaise with the musk-oxes, that's fine, too. I got vacation days. We'll figure it out."

" _Ray_." My chest has become tight, my breath labored, at the possibility. Surely he can't mean to say . . . "Ray, please -- "

"And then -- I'm not done. Fraser. I'm not done." He looks into my eyes, stare intense and unguarded at once, and it takes the full weight of my effort not to look away. "And then if you still want me after three years -- then I get on a plane and I come up here, and this time it's for keeps. How's that sound, Fraser? Good?"

I clamp my jaw shut lest I admit, in a fit of naked honesty, _I will never not want you with me, Stanley Raymond Kowalski_ , and say,

"Ray, as marvelously appealing as that sounds, you and I both know that life often takes unexpected paths and, as you've said, you have your whole life in Chicago. I couldn't possibly exhort you to leave it behind simply because I wish it to be so."

Because a new and sudden terror has gripped me: the realization that this -- this proposal, this swell of hope, this moment -- is too good to be true. Ray's plan will almost certainly never come to fruition; three years is twice the time we've known each other, and what's to say he won't change his mind? Abstract conjecture is one thing. but when the time comes for Ray to face the reality of giving up his home, his friends, his career  \-- surely he'll have realized in the intervening years the impossibility of such a plan. A life with me in the Territories, making his living as a mechanic or a tradesman, shivering through the nights with a chill in his bones and no one with whom to share his bed, his dreams, his life --

No. A man whose heart beats so strongly, whose blood under his thin skin thrums with energy and heat: he belongs in the urban jungle of Chicago, underneath its sweltering summers and concrete girders. He was born in the city and was made for it, shaped by it, and to take him so wholly out of his element the way I had been all those years ago: I will not become the architect of so cruel a plan.

And besides, Ray is a romantic, a dreamer: a man with wants and needs I cannot possibly fulfill. He may have gotten over Stella, but still he is a man who yearns for companionship and love -- the kind of love I'm unable to give him, and what right have I to deprive him of that? If I am drawn so strongly to Ray, to his passion and vivacity, surely there will be women drawn to him as well: women who can match him for desire, who will not only notice but celebrate the many wondrous qualities he has to offer, who will appreciate his romantic nature in ways I cannot begin to reciprocate. And as for children: it is no secret Ray dreams of one day creating a family, and even if I could give him children of his own I am not, surely, the person with whom he'd want to raise them.

I take a breath, thinking about duty. _If you love something, Benton_ , my father told me once, _by God, son, don't_. I'd dismissed him at the time, furious he'd spoken of my mother in such flippant terms, but in the past few months I've had to concede that, at least for the men in our family, perhaps we _are_ better off quashing our most intimate desires, carving them out of ourselves like the hollowing of a snow-shelter, to be filled with things more precious to survival than cabbages or the fanciful notion of soulmates.

"I admire your dedication to our partnership," I start, clearing my throat, "but you are under no obligation to -- "

"'Obligation'?" Ray interrupts. "You think this is about _obligation?_ Fraser, that is just about the stupidest thing I ever heard you say -- and believe me, I have heard you say some real stupid things in the last couple years."

Ray reaches over the small divide, then, and pulls my hands from where they lie, uselessly, in my lap. Ray's right thumb strokes across my knuckles, the feel of his hand solid and familiar. Calluses on the inside of his thumb from the checkered grip of his Beretta; scars from childhood accidents and adolescent roughhousing; the smooth square inch of a teakettle burn, received one night in the Chicago nature preserve.

"Ah," I murmur, finally beginning to comprehend, if not the absolute truth of his feelings, at least their intensity. "Ray." 

"Yeah," says Ray, his voice scratchy yet warm to the bones, like a pure woollen blanket. "This? Ain't obligation, Fraser. Don't know what it _is_ , but it sure as hell ain't that."

He has yet to release my hand, and I fear I could grow addicted to this touch -- this simple point of contact, skin to skin -- and yet instead of pulling back I allow myself to _feel_. Not even Victoria's touch had warmed me in this way; not even my mother's hand on my cheek, weightless and pure.

"So I'm gonna say it again, Fraser, seeing as you weren't listening to me the first eighty-five times I said it." Ray rubs the back of my hand again, his touch warm as the dawning sun. "Give me three years, okay? Then I'm all yours."

"You make a persuasive case, Ray," I say, and though my voice cracks a little I'm mostly able to meet his eyes.

"Just say 'yes,' Fraser. Benton. Just _say_ it. Come on, why you gotta make this so hard?"

In answer, I bring Ray's hand up to my mouth. His eyes go wide as I brush my lips over the back of his hand, and I know he's understood me. "Okay," he says. "Good."

He shakes his head, grinning, his bottom lip caught behind his incisors. The sun begins to break over the horizon, dawn turning Ray's hair the color of burnished gold, and the moment slowly dissolves: he opens the door and steps out, reaches into the backseat for his duffel, and I come around to the front of the car holding his now-lukewarm coffee, swirling the cardboard cup in clockwise circles.

"Call you when I get there?" he says, hitching the duffel onto his shoulder.

"Please do," I say. "And afterwards, Ray, as often as you'd like."

"Sure thing," he says. He pulls me into an embrace, pressing our bodies together, and I allow myself to believe the prickling in my eyes is simply a result of the dry arctic air. Over Ray's shoulder another traveller drags her luggage behind her, wheels scraping unevenly across the tarmac; a novel peeks out from underneath her arm, although I can't fully make out the title.

"Okay," Ray says at last, breath warm against my ear. "I gotta go, buddy. C'mon."

Because I can, because I'm sure he'll let me, I lean into him, fitting my nose at the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply. Ray smells of Diefenbaker's fur, aromatic hotel soap, the wool-blend of his scarf and the down insulation of his parka, and though I'm surely imagining it, the spruce forests northeast of my father's cabin; I consider licking his neck to ascertain if he tastes of tree resin, but Ray is pushing me away before I get the chance.

"Fraser, you weirdo," he says, laughing, "get off'a me, come on. Freak."

His cheeks are pink when we break apart. I hand him his coffee and reach up to adjust his scarf, much the same way my mother would do for my father before he set off again with the dogs and a thermos of piping-hot soup. As her son I found the generosity she extended to him time and time again largely unwarranted, but perhaps she understood who Robert Fraser was at heart and simply wished him to be safe, knowing he would always return home. She had her climatological work, after all, her novels and poetry, her miscellaneous pastimes, and a child who loved her: by no means was she incomplete without her husband, and I am just as much my mother's son as I am my father's.

"Ray," I call out, and he spins around in place. "As the Inuit say: _takuniarivuguk_."

Ray's face creases into a grin, brilliant and shining. "Right back at'cha, Fraser," he says, lifting the hand with his duffel to make a gesture -- his characteristic finger-gun salute -- and turns back. In another ten steps he is gone, the terminal's door swinging shut behind him and dislodging a small pile of snow from the eaves.

Another line of poetry springs to mind, recited this time in my mother's voice: _endure not yet a breach, but an expansion, like gold to airy thinness beat._ The truth of my foolishness is clear to me now: I had been fearing Ray's departure, our physical separation, when I should have known all along that nothing could truly sever our bond. Just as the sun's rays reach the Western hemisphere irrelevant of distance so, too, will the light of my friend continue to reach me, to nourish me, even across the continent.

Before Ray's plane has taken off I have mentally compiled a brief list of inquiries: any small detachment should do, though not so small that I will be missed upon taking an extended leave. Perhaps I will seek a posting in Tuktoyaktuk, serving my boyhood home; or in the more remote reaches of the Yukon, where I will have to trot out my rusty Tutchone and no doubt endure the teasing laughter of the community elders. Even the bustling metropolis of Yellowknife may be bearable with my sister's company; Diefenbaker would be overjoyed were I to settle there, even temporarily, and I must admit a fondness for certain creature comforts that would prove difficult to fulfill above a certain latitude. And when Ray returns --

_Then I'm all yours._

Three years. It will doubtless be a long and difficult road, fraught with loneliness, with uncertainty and fear, but just as the Inuit and the Gwich'in, the Métis and the Dené, trust the sun to return despite the bitter, black midwinter, to rise again and dispel the darkness, filling their world with radiance once again, so too will I.

**Author's Note:**

>   * Poetry quotations are from Tennyson's "[A Farewell](http://www.bartleby.com/360/5/140.html)" (c. 1890) and Donne's "[A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/44131)" (c. 1611) respectively.
>   * Ray's time as a Chicago police detective has been stated contradictingly as 11+ years, beginning prior to 1988 [3.02] and 8 years, beginning in 1991 [4.05]. Trying to reconcile both just ends up breaking the timeline (and there's no way the finale takes place in 1996), so for simplicity's sake I just decided he was a uniform prior to 1991 and his "promotion" after the Botrelle case was to the rank of detective. 
>   * "Takuniarivuguk" means "see you again soon" in [Inuinnaqtun](http://www.tusaalanga.ca/) (a dialect or possibly a sister language of Inuktitut, according to whichever source you're looking at).
>   * Fun fact: Fraser's name in the [original draft](http://www.weeklyscript.com/Due+South%20-%20001%20-%20Pilot.html) of the pilot was Benton Prescott (and Ray Vecchio was originally Ray Hernández). 
>   * Another fun fact: Ray's flight itinerary back to Chicago would have been Fort McPherson → Inuvik → Edmonton → O'Hare (today he'd have to stop at Toronto/Vancouver/Ottawa on the way to O'Hare).
>   * [Cory Aquino](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corazon_Aquino) is a very cool lady.
> 



End file.
